He doesn't have to learn my body again, even if it has been months. His lips still follow the familiar trail, as if it hasn't been months since the last time we did this. I never thought I'd ever be able to stop, but after having Willow I was always exhausted by the time nightfall came.

We went back to how we used to be, before sex, when he used to comfort me after nightmares and he would just hold me. And then, just as slowly as back then, he'd start kissing me again. Eventually the touches started.

The only difference was it didn't take as long for me to feel that hunger. We weren't growing back from Capitol craziness or mutt mutations in nightmares. We were growing back from me giving birth, and now that our beautiful daughter was starting to sleep through the night, this was a lot easier.

He never pressured me. He never asked me if I was ready yet, or if enough time had passed. He is still just as patient with me now as he was fifteen years ago. But one night, a few weeks ago, after I'd gotten home early from taking Willow over to Haymitch's I went upstairs and found Peeta in the shower. The door was ajar and I heard him grunting, and I knew the sounds escaping from low within his throat.

Lord knows how many times those noises came because of me.

After fifteen years it wasn't the first time I'd heard him touching himself. There were times we did it together as foreplay.

Those we amazing nights.

So I stood there, watching him for a few moments, realizing he'd really just started, and on impulse I walked up to him.

"Let me," I told him, because I'd done it for him plenty of times before.

I don't think he'd expected me to take this step, and he couldn't quite control himself.

It felt like he came in seconds.

But other than one other time, even that was too tiring.

I took him in my mouth on nights that I could, but most of the time he took care of himself while I slept, so exhausted I didn't even have nightmares.

Now, though, after six months, my body needed him more than my body needed rest. The ache, the hunger had become more than I could bare, so that night, after putting Willow to bed, I grabbed his hand.

"Let's go to bed," I whisper, and it was something about the way I said it that made his eyes darken. I led him to our bedroom, Peeta closing the door behind us.

He wasted no time.

It was almost like he thought if he didn't act now, I'd change my mind.

Unlike our first time, there was no, "Are you sure you're ready?"

We took off each other's clothes, and then we made our way to the bed.

His eyes did travel down my body, taking it all in, just like the first time, and I realize that yah, my body does look different. And like the first time, I find that I'm a little self-conscious.

"Don't," he whispers into the night. "You're still beautiful."

"And all this time I thought I wasn't particularly pretty," I said with a smile.

Peeta grinned. "What a schmuck that guy was, eh?"

I laughed, quietly, as to not wake Willow, because that would ruin everything.

And then my laugh swallowed in my throat as he kissed me, and that familiar tingle made it's way from the tip of my head to the soles of me feet.

And all hopes and wishes of being quiet came to halt the minute he slipped two fingers inside of me.

Of course he was a magician with his fingers. He was a baker, and a painter, so those hands, those long, nimble hands knew how to paint a masterpiece, and wasn't the body artwork? So naturally he was skillful, and he touched me in ways that could only be defined as artistic. He'd been using his hands, kneading, long before he'd ever touched or caressed a woman, so naturally, he was a pro at it.

How many times did I watch him as he made dough or painted? The way his hands kneaded the dough, or the way he made the paintbrush move against his canvas? After a while it started to turn me on, because he treated me with the same love and tenderness in the bedroom that he did with his bread in the kitchen or with his artwork in his studio.

So yes, naturally, the minute he slid two fingers into, a loud moan escaped out of my mouth that he couldn't quite shush with his mouth.

And then his lips were on my breasts, his tongue flicking over my nipple, and I gasped, then called his name, loudly, into the night.

It's been too long, and I can't keep quiet, especially when his fingers keep doing that, because he knows I like it, love it, really, and he's doing it at the same time as his lips suck on one of my breasts while his other hand—the one that's not deep inside of me—squeezes the other one.

My entire body is shaking when I cum, a loud cry escaping my mouth as I lift my hips off of the bed, pumping into his fingers.

It's not enough.

Peeta seems to agree and understand because he positions himself on top of me, but I stop him.

"It's my turn," I try and tell him, but he shakes his head.

"I'm not gonna last long if you do anything," whispers Peeta, and before I can respond, before I can think, he's pushed himself inside of me.

Contrary to the fact that a baby just came out of there, I am still tight, and it's been months since my husband and I did this, so it hurt enough for me to gasp and dig my nails into his back.

"Oh my God, Katniss," he moaned, his voice tight, his eyes squeezed shut. "You feel good. So good." He buries his face in my neck and I can feel his heart pounding on top of mine.

I take deep, calming breaths, trying to get my bearings, but before I can, he pulls out, and then pushes back in. It hurts for a few more moments, before the pain subsides, and then my hips start to jerk into his.

We haven't lost it, even after this time.

If anything it's better than I remember.

His thrust start slow, as if he is trying to savor this moment, but I can tell the pleasure starts to take over when he curses. He slides his hand underneath me, his palms pressing into my back, so that he is practically lying on top of me. My legs act on their own accord and wrap tightly around his waist.

"Fuck, Katniss," he hisses. "Oh, fuck."

He doesn't drop the F bomb often. If anything he says shit when it feels good. The last time he dropped so many F words we had conceived Willow. Which reminded me—

"Don't cum inside me," I groaned out. I was still off the pills because I was still breast-feeding Willow, though I was trying to wing her off. Six months is average from what I've read.

"Wanna swallow?" asks Peeta, and I cum, violently at those words.

"Yes," I say, my breathing sporadic, and still his thrusts become faster, and deeper. I was dizzy with pleasure.

"What's my name?" Peeta grunts, his palms pushing me even harder against his chest.

I whimper. "Peeta." He shivers and looks up at me.

"Say it again."

"Peeta."

"Again."

I can feel it. It's so close to happening. "Peeta!" I know I'm loud. Willow will probably start screaming any minute now.

Except I can't control myself with how hard my husband is thrusting into me, over and over and over and over again, and again, and again, and again, and I'm drowning in a sea of blue.

And he's close too, because suddenly he throws his head back. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he groans, and by the time he looks back down I'm playing with my breasts, knowing he'd like that. His body jerks furiously and I know he's only a few pumps away. "Cum," he demands, and I unravel. He waits until my loud moans and groans subside, and then he starts pushing into me with a frenzy that hasn't been seen yet tonight.

He's close. So close. Just the way I like it, when our eyes lock and we're both cursing, and my breasts are bouncing and my legs are in the air, and then he pulls out and my lips are around him, and he shoots into my mouth, his hips pumping, and I take all of him, like I have many times before.

I suck him dry and can feel his hands in my hair as his breathing slows down.

"Holy shit. Oh my God. Holy fucking shit." I back away from him with a pop. He looks at me with such love and tenderness it makes my heart melt a little.

"I love you," I breathe, and he smiles, sliding off of me.

"I love you too."